The Language of Secrets by Ausma Zehanat Khan Page B

discretion.”
    Dar glared at Khattak, his arms crossed in front of him.
    â€œSuppose tonight you were to announce Mohsin’s death on your program without mentioning the manner of his death. You could suggest that those who knew Mohsin attend a memorial for your son at a local mosque. In fact, the Nur mosque would be best.” Khattak said this as if he had just thought of it. “That would give me the excuse I need to conduct interviews at the mosque, narrowing down the list of suspects, and speeding my way to an arrest. Once we made the arrest, you could announce it on your broadcast.”
    It was a ploy that depended on Andy Dar’s obsession with his ratings.
    â€œYou should be up at Algonquin, investigating.” Dar was beginning to lose steam. “Not here, and not at the mosque.”
    â€œThe scene has been thoroughly documented.” Khattak allowed a note of genuine compassion to enter his voice. “Do you believe that Mohsin’s killer is still at Algonquin Park?” And when Dar didn’t speak, unwilling to make concessions, Khattak continued, “I would be grateful for your help with this, sir. Mohsin’s killer won’t be expecting us to work together. I’d like to prove him wrong, wouldn’t you?”
    â€œHe was my son,” Dar said, rallying a little. “No one wants justice more than I do.”
    Khattak thought of the pain that haunted Alia’s eyes. He bowed his head and said, “I’m sure that’s true, sir.”
    Alia walked out of the room.
    â€œI will broadcast the news of the memorial on my program.” Dar frowned at the French doors Alia had closed behind her. “I’ll need time to sort out arrangements at the mosque.”
    That was exactly what Khattak had counted on.
    â€œAnd the announcement of the arrest will air first on my program, is that clear?”
    â€œVery clear. Thank you.”
    Khattak’s hand was on the door. His thoughts had followed Alia from the room.
    â€œOne more thing, Khattak.”
    Khattak turned back to face him. It shocked him to see that Dar’s deep-set eyes were wet, though his voice was steady enough.
    â€œHe was my only child, my boy. If your efforts to find his killer do not succeed, I will use my program to take you down.”
    *   *   *
    Alia Dar was waiting for him on the front steps, a heavy bag of salt in her arms. Khattak took it from her, scattering the salt on the steps, spreading several more handfuls over the driveway.
    He put the bag away inside the garage, the cold nipping at his bare face. Alia seemed oblivious to it. Her coat was unbuttoned, her hands free of gloves.
    â€œI’d like to speak with you about Mohsin.”
    Alia glanced at the windows to the den, where Andy Dar’s silhouette appeared.
    â€œWe could take a walk,” she said. “Chorley Park’s not far from here. There are some nice trails. Unless you think it’s too cold?”
    â€œDon’t you feel the cold?”
    Alia Dar shrugged, her face blank.
    Khattak suppressed a pang of pity.
    â€œGet your gloves,” he said gently. “And button up your coat. Then I’ll walk with you.”
    *   *   *
    When she was dressed more sensibly for the weather, he let her lead the way to Chorley Park. The main pathway through the park had been shoveled, a bombast of white on either side of the cobbled walk. They trudged past sheltered butternut trees until Khattak called a halt at a small enclosure. A bench was set before a scenic outlook of shimmering trees that disappeared at the edge of the horizon against a crumbling erasure of sky.
    He took a seat at the opposite end of the bench from Alia.
    â€œYou said Mohsin spoke of me.”
    What Khattak wanted to know was whether Mohsin had wanted to speak to a contact at CPS, a contact he trusted, particularly if Mohsin had felt himself constrained in the role of a police agent